From the thoughts and observations of Monsieur Gaspard Francois LeCroissant, as written for those of elegant taste and refinement to read and to wonder.
Wednesday Evening, on the 19th of April, in the pitiful English colony of Port Dominion, upon a largely ignored island which the English call "St. Albion"....
At last, I am ashore—though I hesitate to use so noble a word for what, in truth, was more akin to stepping onto a plank nailed to a heap of rotting wood that these islanders dare to call a “wharf.” Mon Dieu! The humidity alone could wilt silk, and my shoes—my newest yellow calfskin, Paris-made by Monsieur Delorme himself—were nearly ruined the moment I touched that wretched timber.
I could feel the eyes of every sweating, soot-faced dockhand upon me as I descended the gangway. Of course they stared; when one is accustomed only to the crude simplicity of English cloth, true elegance must seem like a vision from another world. My coat—bright as the sun and twice as refined—was the only civilized thing in sight.
The first breath of this colonial air nearly made me faint. It smells of salt, rum, and the unwashed hopes of those who have fled civilization. Even the sea seems uncultured here—too loud, too free.
And as for Captain Jacques Le Escargot—ah, yes. That rustic creature. A man of the sea, but not of the salons. He carries himself with a certain blunt efficiency that the bourgeois often mistake for dignity. I endured his company for weeks, listening to his endless talk of wind and tide as though these were subjects fit for conversation. He is not from Paris, you know, and one can tell. The Captain, though nominally French, hailed from Marseilles — Marseilles! — a place, which I often remind myself, “barely French at all… a little too sun, a little too garlic, a little too… Italian.” His manners are provincial; his laughter too broad, too honest. The man had the audacity to speak loudly, laugh heartily, and worst of all — to sweat. On a vessel of such close quarters, this was nothing short of barbarism. Still, I confess, there was a certain pleasure in watching him grow visibly relieved as I disembarked. He wished me adieu with an enthusiasm that bordered on vulgarity.
Inwardly, I returned the sentiment.
Now, to the English.
Les Anglais! How does one describe a people so determined to live without grace? The Governor, Lord Whitehall, met me with a look that might have curdled milk. His coat was well-cut, I grant him that, but the color—drab brown!—the hue of mediocrity itself. He spoke with the heavy certainty of a man who believes he commands the world, yet one could see the doubt flicker in his eyes. Power, I have learned, rarely feels as firm as it pretends. I could see from my first gaze upon him that this was a man damned to this island prison of his own Queen's making. Les Anglais have a way of breeding useless clerks, bureaucrats, and statesman of service that are middling in their ways and efficiency, and thus are doomed to a limbo and perdition in backwards waters and primitive locations such as this.
Yet even a prisoner may have his graces. I have heard of his wife from what my spies in France had informed to me before I was required to undertake such a brutal journey to this island; Lady Eleanor Whitehall. Ah, now she is another matter entirely. The only creature on this island who appears to understand what beauty is meant to do. Her hair is said to gleam like darkened, polished brown wood under the tropical sun, her movements languid yet precise, each word she speaks a thread of honey and steel. When she smiles—oh, that smile!—I am sure that the Governor forgets his English stiffness altogether. I do believe she knows her effect upon men, and wields it as a weapon more artful than any blade.
If I were not already exhausted from my rigorous journey, I might have indulged to arrive at the Governors residence in official presentation and see for myself this lovely and enchanting woman, and I would enjoy our exchange more. I know that she would curtsy with a subtle curve of mockery, and I would bow with exaggerated grace. Between us would pass a moment of mutual recognition—a silent accord between connoisseurs of performance.
And then there is the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma.
I had heard whispers of her even in France, though few dare speak them too loudly. She is… how does one say? A mystery wrapped in perfume. Her gaze has the unsettling calm of one who knows too much, and her presence unsettles even the air. If what I am told is even a shred true, then she will draw my attention as surely as the moon draws the tide.
If rumor is to be believed, she possesses certain… talents that extend beyond charm or intellect. Whether these are of divine or darker origin, I cannot say. But one does not look upon her without feeling something ancient stir beneath the ribs.
The English men grow uneasy around her. Their wives pretend to despise her, but in truth, they envy her. As for me—moi—I am not easily unsettled. Still, I find myself watching the windows at night, wondering which of the island’s shadows hides her thoughts.
Port Dominion itself is a contradiction. “Mon Dieu. So this is the island where civilization goes to die.”
It pretends to be a fortress of empire, yet its walls crumble, its soldiers sweat and shuffle like schoolboys, and its people live as though the world has forgotten them. The fort guns are rusting, the flag frayed, and their “General Winthrop” seems a good enough man but weary—like an actor repeating the same tired line before an indifferent crowd.
There is wealth here, yes—but it smells of desperation.
I shall endure it, of course. A man of my refinement can endure anything, though not without comment. Perhaps my presence will serve as a gentle reminder of civilization to these forlorn colonials. After all, it is not every day that Paris graces the edges of the map.
And who knows? Perhaps my sojourn here will prove… diverting. There are worse places to be than among fools who do not recognize their betters. I could have had the misfortune of being sent to The Americas.
Besides, it amuses me to imagine Lord Whitehall’s expression when he realizes that I, Gaspard François LeCroissant, am here to observe, to report, and, when necessary, to charm.
Though if the Contessa and Lady Eleanor continue their dangerous waltz of glances and secrets, I suspect my time here will be less a mission—and more a play.
And mon Dieu, what a performance it shall be.
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